Moncreiffe would never make such an unflattering comparison, she was sure.
“Right. That’s the one,” Moncreiffe murmured.
Charlotte noted the nondescript façade, so much like its neighbors. Paint was peeling from the once-white trim on the pediment above the front door, but even in that detail it was similar to its neighbors. Only the dull brass house numbers on the mellow brick set it apart. No one appeared to be peeking out of the windows, nor was Nigel or Tumblety conveniently arriving or departing.
She counted the number of houses to the end of the row, before Moncreiffe turned the corner and headed down the alley. “We should not be doing this during daylight, in such a readily identifiable carriage.”
“If we have occasion to come here again, I will borrow my grandfather’s tilbury or
